Tag Archives: existential crisis

Whoa, we’ve had lost weekends before, weeks even, but Lambchop and I have never slept through an entire year. What happened to 2013? Did anything important take place at all? Can you honestly recall a single event of note from 2013? I can’t. It’s like it never even happened.

The reason for our absence is a combination of cloak and dagger cyber intrigue and sheer laziness. Some astute Spanish guy took over our WordPress installation, and the hosting company took the site down. That was nice of them. I guess that went to my junk folder. Then it seemed like a lot of work to fix it. And I spent 25% of the year in California, and I had other things to do like Instagram pictures of dogs who are allowed to sit next to me in first class. And my fake Twitter account kept me up nights.

But as luck would have it, I am mid-existential crisis, and Mr. H rightly determined that having this site back up would be a nice distraction from me telling him about my angst.

Questions swirl: Am I ever going to feel like a grownup and not a total imposter? Who is going to fix my manicure and lose this ten pounds for me? Will people stop publishing screenshots of weather apps on social media? Is it possible to cobble together a résumé using only Smiths lyrics?

Look at that. Purty, right? So shiny. Although I think these have been styled for the photo shoot. Probably brushed with Elmer’s glue. Either that or my pharmacist has been sucking the coating off mine. We are on a first name basis. I would hate to think of such betrayal.

I already had pizza today, per Lambchop’s excellent advice. So that leaves running around like a banshee, or settling in for a little assistance, assistance that renders me sadly only functional, not hepped up in any delightful way. Drugs are far more fun when you don’t actually need them. Damn nervous system, thwarting, always thwarting.

There, now I can face finishing my taxes and unloading the dishwasher. Score one for financial planning and domestic drudgery.

Of course Pete Burns wore it better. If you didn’t know the answer, you have no business reading this site. Â Get off our lawn. This is America, where we settle things with incoherent YouTube channels and extended ammo clips. Just to be clear, since we are on a national stage, Vomitola’s position has always been Make Love (with a suitably attractive person), Not War. This position is also known as “ankles aloft.”

I am on a rather trying regimen of regular exercise, no alcohol, and plenty of sleep, and while it does a body good, it still offers ample opportunity for mischief. There I was at the gym, trying to unfreeze my brain, when on comes “Atrocity Exhibition” on the iPod. Meanwhile, cable news flah flahs in the background (some other humanoid thought it was a good idea to attend the gym at the same time as me), and I wonder how relieved the cable news caption writers were that both Tucson and Tragedy start with a T. What if another city were involved? Would they have had to run with Slaughter in the Southwest? It’s no Horror in the Heartland.

So I kept flipping through my iPod looking for something peppier, but it seems I was destined for an extended Joy Division-Leonard Cohen jam, punctuated with zingy captions crawling by on TV. And they say exercise is good for depression? I’m going to go weep in the shower.

We could all use some PANTS in our life. Operation emaciation continues around here, as Mr. H bravely staves off Snapple, and I retain no interest in eating most foods, especially if they require opening or preparing. Except last night, Mr. H made pizza, and I had to make an exception.

I am hoping the rest of this existentialism shoves off soon enough, and then my pants won’t be so saggy. I could just buy smaller pants, but that costs money, and we also need to hoard that, because we have a loft worth 75k less than we paid for it. Surely we can make this amount up in no time by making pizza at home instead of ordering out. I would like to discuss this with Barack Obama and maybe Yoda.

But by the end of this month, sunset will be pushed back all the way until 4:56 PM, and surely that will be cause for frolic in the streets. I’m holding out for March 13, when sunset careens ahead to 6:47 PM! I won’t be able to handle myself. If only Lambchop and I could schedule another relaxing weekend to dunk ourselves in Key West right after that. I’ll always fondly remember The Weekend Without Rage: 2009. Also known as The Only Weekend of My Life Without Rage.

I am going to Florida in a few weeks, but my whole family is also going, minus my dad, who is 2 kool 2 grope. Hey, when they grope you, do they bother to look in your mouth like prison? Just wondering. Â At any rate, I predict not necessarily rage, but chaos, and possibly the renting of a mini van. I’m going back to bed now.

As a symptom of existentialism, I have taken to berating myself for not accomplishing X or Y. Why haven’t I sold a screenplay yet? Oh, you have to write one first. But I have so many ideas! Can’t people just sense their genius and fill in the blanks?

So I have lowered my sights. I am going to do absolutely nothing with my life. This, now this is meat I can sink my teeth into. This is a caribou, freshly killed by a Palin. ATTACK! Â Right now I am in bed, eating chocolates, without a care in the world! It’s amazing what adjusting one’s expectations can do. I had best expect not to gain weight from these chocolates. Life’s a beach!

Two thirds of my household has been stricken with a plague, much like our poor Lambchop, and the other third has been stricken with large capacity existentialism. Â As a result, we all very much want to lie down, thank you. Except the child, who prefers tearing around, no matter how high the fever. Her brain must have already melted, poor little sprocket.

Maybe our problem is actually carbon monoxide, not mono. I have detectors propped in each bedroom since I was all worried about the fire department’s inspection of our construction, but the guy didn’t even look at them, so I never bothered to add batteries. Deceit!

Finally, a poll: Who thinks marsala mushroom sauce is a good idea to pair with filet mignon? Answer: not me. But that could be the existentialism talking. And talk it does! On and on in my ear. Â Nothing seems like a good idea, and since I typically trade in bad ideas, this should not be surprising, yet somehow it is a handicap.

Someone actually arrived at our site by searching for “what’s good about November.” Well, I swan. Someone also arrived by looking for “anal scrabble,” which is frankly more plausible to me than something being good about November. Here, a proud listing of how much I hate November:

October 31, 2007, “Handwashing is Key,” wherein we establish that while October sucks, November is worse.

October is bungled logistics and petty grievances and the horror of taking a shower every day. October secretly arranged to go out to lunch with your Saturn Return and talk about you, and then they strike up a friendship born of shared distaste for you and stay up late on the phone, planning new pranks.

Allrighty, whatâ€™s good about November? [ed.- I’ll be darned, we tried!] How psyched are you for November? Guy Fawkes day!!!!!! That is in November. Thanksgiving is in November, and thatâ€™s generally fun if you put aside historical context and all. I make a mean quinoa pilaf. Veteranâ€™s Day, well, that could be a downer. Depends on who you ask. Halloween candy on sale? Donâ€™t need that and would not want to catch obesity from looking at it funny either. Christmas decorations will slowly start to become more contextually appropriate. I think we should just neatly excise October and November from the calendar. Halloween can be moved to September, right after my 25th birthday. The Vomitola calendar is awesome. St. Croixâ€™s Day is a real day! So is â€œeveryoneâ€™s attractiveâ€ day! Except that is not really true. We just pretend and feel better.

Take that, NO!vember. I am going to get on a plane and go somewhereâ€¦five to ten degrees warmer than here. Yes, well played, me. Well played! The only catch is that I am going with a ybab, and I have to decide whether to strap her to my back and carry the carseat while carrying the bag on my head, or strap the carseat to my back while dragging her on a leash attached to a cute animal backpack, or perhaps check her at the curb and pay someone to push me along in a Smarte Carte (â€œweâ€™re the carts at the airport and a whole lot moreâ€¦â€ More! I like that. OMINOUS).

Whoa, clearly winter 2007-08 was a rough one. Why didn’t someone just stick me on a treadmill in front of a happy lite watching a DVD of Caribbean waves for the whole month of November? Why don’t gyms have that set-up, anyway? I will do it and make a killing. With optional lead apron rental.

It’s cat picture Monday! Piping hot 5-year-old content! But that cat doesn’t look a day over 9 now, so I think she’s holding her own. We do not still have a framed photo of a cat. We don’t even have framed photos of a child. That framing things ship sailed years ago.

It has just come to my attention that it is No!vember, and thus I spent a few contemplative hours under a pile of pillows, trying to replicate that most soothing of feelings: lead apron at the dentist. Every six months, I try to con them out of one, but they won’t fall for it. “Say, this one is looking rather frayed at the hem. Are you sure you aren’t planning to get a new one?” Â I can see why they might not jump at the chance. The damn things are over $300! I tried bargaining, “Oh, sure, I’ll come in for a teeth bleaching, if you let me use the apron.”

“But you don’t need it.”

“Yes, I do!”

This might be my idea of heaven: lying there in a tanning bed, wearing a lead apron, while someone rubs my feet. All sensory experiences met! But I am too pale and pre-cancerous to tan, and we can’t have nice things. And I don’t have feet so much as hooves.

But really, sanity and I had a good run if I made it to mid-No!vember without crippling anxiety. You are on your own for the rest of the month. If you think I’m making pumpkin flan for anyone, well, I probably am. I can’t deny anyone the glory of flan. I will rise from my very deathbed for flan.

And then it occurred to us that teabagging is currently untreatable in any form by Glaxo-Smithkline. One of us takes big guns crazy pills, and if *we* find the tea party to be a bit tetched, where does that leave reality? I hope our real overlord, Galaxar, can sort this one out. Until then, we’ll be totally:

It has come to our attention at Vomitola HQ that there is a national day of election tomorrow. Apparently there is a nascent party that favors lapsang souchong and stockading gay people, which is as contradictory a message as we could find.

Anyway, I like to poach scallops in a spot of lapsang broth myself, so I thought maybe I could focus only on their fiscal conservative angle. After all, who isn’t using a pinch less caviar in these troubled times? I am no scientist, but I think it tastes just as nice that way. However, I soon realized that these otherwise upstanding tea-favoring people believe Glenn Beck is serious!

We admit we are not even sure who is running tomorrow. It seems to be one giant free-for-all at this point. The names of the crazier people who stick out as, well, crazier people include Christine O’Donnell and Sharron Angle. Sarah Palin may or may not be running for something. Bristol Palin is running for Queen of the Danceteria. We shall go out on a limb and predict: a sweeping victory for the mentally interesting.